


Adrift

by ArtificialFlavorz



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Annie's games, Drug Use, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtificialFlavorz/pseuds/ArtificialFlavorz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is reaped, and so she will die, and so he will be alone again.</p>
<p>(Annie's Games)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is How Fear Feels

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Something I've wanted to write for forever. It may take some time, but you can expect an update about ever five to seven days. This chapter is shorter than the rest will be.  
> But, uh, yeah. Enjoy!
> 
> (Special thanks to Alec for her magnificent editing.)

     The morning of the reaping, she forgets why she is scared. Just for the briefest of seconds, when she stands beside her bed and looks out to the sea, she forgets. Her heart stops its quickening against her ribs and holds its own, steady kind of rhythm for two or three beats, and instead of blood rushing in her ears, she can hear the waves outside.  
     Then she remembers. A shadow passes in front of the sun-- a cloud, a bird, something-- and she remembers to be terrified. Her fingers shake, and she turns to the mirror hanging over her dresser, made of driftwood, a present from her father after the last reaping, 'a celebration', he had called it, like the reaping is something to celebrate. She approaches the dresser cautiously, her hands shaking as she opens the top drawer carefully, removing from it her reaping dress. If fear can be woven, she believes, this is what it feels like in your hands. She slides the dress over her head, shifting her bare feet against the pale wood of the floor as she does so.  
 _This is what fear feels like against your skin_ , a voice, not hers, whispers in her mind, and she breathes deeply, through her nose. She stares at her reflection in the mirror- large, round eyes blink back at her, peering over freckled cheeks. She runs her fingers through her auburn hair, catching them on the tangles at the ends, and pulling, harder, so the tangles break.  
    She enters the kitchen, still barefoot. She can smell fish cooking on the stove before she sees any proof of it, and she hurries towards the source. Her father stands over the small wood burning stove, and he turns to her as she enters.  
    “Hey there, mackerel,” He grins, the smile failing to mask the dark shadows beneath his eyes. She doubts he's slept in the last few days, “You look beautiful. Just like your mother.”  
    Annie smiles a little back at him as he places a plate of fish and seaweed toast in front of her, “Thanks, Papa.”  
    He sits across from her, eyeing her worriedly, “You don't need to fret, Annie. Your name is only in there three times. The odds are in your favor.”  
    Something within her trembles at hearing her father use the Capitol's phrase like it's comforting. She pushes her food around her plate, suddenly not hungry. “I know, Papa. I'm okay.”  
    He frowns at her, brushing her hair away from her face, “Are you sure?”  
    “Absolutely. “ Annie manages a smile, and it seems to comfort her father to some extent, who stands and gestures for her to stay where she is, hurrying towards his room.  
    He returns with a silver hair clip, shaped like a fish, its scales carved with precision, every third or so inlaid with green sea glass. “In honor of your last reaping. It was your mother's.”  
    Annie feels a lump rising in her throat, and she swallows it down painfully. Her father carefully begins braiding her hair, his large, calloused hands still managing to be gentle, tying it off with a piece of elastic.  
    She admires his handiwork in her mirror when he finishes. The braid is a simple one, but as she fastens the clip to the top, her breath catches. Something about the action feels final.  
 _This is how fear feels in your lungs._

+

    She leaves for the reaping early. She hugs her father tightly, breathing in his sea-salt smell, and tells him she will see him after it's over. She walks along the beach first, slowly, listening to the ocean, her ocean, kiss the shore. If it had been any other day, she would have gone swimming. Instead, she removes her sandals and digs her toes into the damp sand, letting the salt water wash over the tops of her feet.  
    “Cresta.” A man's voice interrupts the sounds of the ocean, and she turns slowly. Finnick Odair grins at her, his teeth almost too white for his tanned face.  
    “Odair.” She greets him calmly, and the hammering of her heart changes a little.  
     He is her only friend, and their reasons for friendship aren't even good ones. He likes her because she doesn't look at him like some kind of Adonis, and she tolerates him because he doesn't look at her like a strong gust of wind may blow her away.  
    “Today's the day, huh?” His question is calmer than she expects, no hint of the panic that has set deep into Annie's bones. Maybe, she thinks, he stopped being scared after he won. He's untouchable now.  
    “Yeah,” She turns back to the water, frowning a little, “Today's the day.”  
    He stands next to her, and she notices he's still wearing his shoes—fancy Capitol ones, made of fabric and rubber. It doesn't seem to bother him that the salt water sinks into them as the waves lap against the shore.  
    “I'm scared, Finnick,” Her voice shakes a little, and he glances over at her, as if surprised both at her fear and the use of his first name.  
    “It's your last reaping, Cresta. You'll be fine,” He looks back across the ocean, “Besides, if you're reaped, someone will volunteer for you. You'd be an embarrassment in the Arena.” There's a joking tone to his voice, but the way his eyes cloud over a little at the idea of her in the Games is not lost on Annie.  
    “You're right.” She sighs, and turns back towards the beach. Back towards the reaping.  
    He walks with her to the edge of town, where the buildings begin, then stops. He extends a hand, “Well, Cresta, I suppose I'll see you after the Games.”  
    She shakes his hand mechanically. “I suppose you will.”  
    Before he drops her hand, he squeezes it gently, “I promise you, Cresta. You'll be fine.”  
    As he walks away, towards the Central square, she realizes that Finnick Odair is the best liar she knows.  
+  
    She lines up in the front, with the other seventeen-year-old girls. She can see Finnick on stage,his arms crossed, seated in a metal chair with his eyes closed, head leaned backwards towards the sky. She tries to regulate her breathing as Maika, the Capitol spokesperson for district Three, stands, delivering the same speech she does every year. As she wishes for the odds to be ever in their favor, Annie's heartbeat picks up to the point where she wonders if she might faint.  
    The girl's name is drawn first. Annie relaxes when Maika reads it off. “Hilly Frenchas.” Annie Cresta is not Hilly Frenchas, but as her face appears on the screen above the crowd, she realizes Hilly could be her. The girl is small and pale, with eyes that look terrified. She begins to be hauled towards the front, and the crowd is silent. Annie can hear her crying.  
    She steps forward without thinking much of anything, raising her hand above her head. “I volunteer,” Her voice is not shaking in the way she thought it would, but rather is strong and carries in a way she wouldn't expect, “I volunteer as tribute.”  
    She can see Finnick's eyes open as he sits up on stage. His expression is hard to read as Hilly is returned to the arms of her sobbing mother, and Annie herself is lead to the stage. She can see the faces of her peers-- people who know exactly how much of a failure she really is, who have seen her in the training provided to all the District's children-- and she has to remind herself to breathe.  
    “How exciting! Introduce yourself, dear!” Maika smiles at her, and the blue-green of her lips makes Annie homesick for a place she hasn't left yet.  
    “My name is Annalise Cresta.” Annie barely breathes it, but Maika claps excitedly.  
     The boy's name is then drawn, and she is hyper aware of the sound of Maika's long, green fingernails scraping the bottom of the glass bowl. She removes the scrap of paper with a dramatic flourish, and squints at the name through her bright blue eyelashes.  
    “Markian Nera!”  
     A boy from the row of fourteen year olds stumbles forward, and the crowd cheers. Annie tries not to focus on how no one made a noise for her. He smiles, waving, as he approaches the stage. He ascends the steps to the platform far more gracefully than Annie had, shaking her hand and grinning in a way that appears to be genuine.  
Maika beams brighter and introduces the Tributes once more, noting Annie's bravery in volunteering and then the ceremony ends before Annie can really wrap her head around what's happening. She and Markian-- who insists she just call him Mark, are led into two adjacent rooms within City Hall. One visitor, they are informed, is allowed to meet with them at a time. Each visitor is given ten minutes to say their goodbyes.  
    Ten minutes is not nearly enough time.  
    Her father enters quietly, and sits across from her. There is complete silence between them for a few moments before he speaks.  
    “We almost made it, didn't we, mackerel.”  
     It's then that she allows herself to cry. Just a tiny bit-- two drops that roll down her cheeks before she wipes them away, “We almost did,” she agrees, and she knows he knows that she's not coming back from this. And if she is, it's in a wooden box. They stand, and he holds her against his chest for the rest of the time. She tries to allow herself to be comforted by the rhythmic thumping of his heart.  
     A Peacekeeper enters and alerts them that their time is up, and her father gives her a final squeeze before exiting. She rubs furiously at her eyes before the next guest enters.  
     The girl whom she volunteered for stands before her, still dressed in her clothes for the reaping. Annie notices that they are too large for her.  
     The little girl doesn't say anything, just flings her arms around Annie's waist and starts crying. The older girl is entirely unsure of what to do, so she just lets her tears soak the front of her dress before pulling away. Hilly leaves before her time is up.  
     Finnick is the last to enter. For whatever reason, she can't bring herself to make eye contact with him. He remains standing as she remains seated . He opens his mouth twice, as if he is going to say something, but closes it before any noise escapes, and exits after just two minutes.  
     She's always imagined that it take longer than seventeen minutes to say goodbye to everyone who cares. But, then again, she's always imagined there are more people that really do care.


	2. Sea-Green Sunsets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the best lie he's ever told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two! Also pretty short, but I promise that they /do/ get longer. Anyways, enjoy.  
> (Thank you once more to Alec for being generally amazing. Also, y'know, editing)

He awakens on the morning of the reaping with the same hollow feeling in his stomach that he has every year, amplified by twelve. He rubs his eyes and sits up slowly. A few dust motes drift in front of him, and he bats them away with one hand while rubbing his head with the other. It hurts-- his head hurts.

       He climbs out of bed, placing his bare feet on the cold wood of his room, and stumbles towards the bathroom, throwing open the cabinet behind the mirror and rummaging around until he removes the small, glass box that was his token back in the arena.

           Five years, he thinks as he opens the box and pinches some of its contents on to the counter adjacent to the sink. He removes a paper card from its place next to his toothbrush and scrapes the powder into three straight lines. Five years since the Arena. He leans forward, plugging his left nostril and inhaling with his right, carefully, down each line. A few seconds later, his head stops throbbing.

       He washes his face with cold water from the tap, then wets his hair. He practices his ‘I’m untouchable' face in the mirror, frowns at the way it doesn't reach his eyes, and tries again. The effort is not met with any real kind of result, and he gives up after a few minutes.

       He re-enters his room, sliding on a white dress shirt with no button holes for the buttons to fasten into— 'easy access' Glimmer would joke— and a pair of dark dress pants. He tries to remember if he's eaten breakfast as he watches grains of dust dance with each other in the sunlight. Something within him knows he hasn't, but the drugs taste better than any food does, and today is the reaping, and he's not the one who needs his strength.

       He watches the specks waltz in the sunlight for a few more moments and misses his headache. A headache means he's clean. He's not clean anymore. He's sure Mags will be disappointed.

 

       +

 

The walk on the beach isn't a conscious decision. He has gotten into the habit of letting his feet guide his body, as his mind no longer seems responsible enough for such a task. He wears his dress shoes and brings the box, as he doubts he'll return to Victor's Village before the reaping. He locks the door behind him.

       The sand is warm, and he can feel the heat through the thin rubber soles of his shoes. He wanders down the beach slowly, admiring just how empty it is— how the reaping puts everything on hold.

He sees her long before he approaches her. The red of her hair is amplified by the drugs, and it shines a sort of golden in the light. He wonders why Annie Cresta has become a sunset.

       He's not sure he should talk to her, at first. Annie Cresta and he are friends in a sort of warped sense of the word. He knows he could leave her life and she would go on exactly the way she does now, but if she were to somehow duck out of his, there would be some kind of hole within him that even the strongest drugs couldn't fill. The hollow feeling in his stomach grows stronger. He thinks that maybe he should've eaten, or done an extra line. His head hurts a little.

       He gets closer to her and notices the fish in her braid. It flashes green at him, and he realizes it the same shade as her eyes. Sea green. Annie Cresta is a sea green sunset.

       “Cresta.” He tries to clear his mind, but her hair is still brighter than usual and his head doesn't ache and he wishes his head hurt, why doesn't his head hurt.

       “Odair.” She's facing him and suddenly his world achieves a new level of clarity. He is Finnick Odair, today is the day of the reaping, and Annie Cresta is not a sunset, Annie Cresta is a human being.

       Today isn't just the day of the reaping, it's the day of her reaping. She still has to stand in orderly lines and wait for her death sentence to be given or not while Finnick Odair wears his untouchable face and watches, “Today's the day, huh?”

       “Yeah,” She turns back to the ocean, and he falls into step beside her, “Today's the day.” She pauses, as if maybe the ocean can wash away the reaping and the Capitol and the fear of the Arena. It can't, Finnick knows. He's tried.

“I'm scared, Finnick,” Her voice trembles in a way he's not familiar with hearing from her. Annie Cresta doesn't tremble.

       “It's your last reaping, Cresta. You'll be fine,” Finnick turns his head away from her, towards the ocean, where the waves are starting to blend together, “Besides, if you're reaped, someone will volunteer for you. You'd be an embarrassment in the Arena.” He can't help but think of that— Annie, _his_ Annie—no, not his Annie, in the Arena.

       “You're right.” Of course he's right. Few people know the game as well as he does.

       She starts towards the town, and his feet follow, his mind still stuck on sea-green sunsets, until he remembers that Mags is waiting for him to walk her to the reaping. He tries to shake his sudden and overwhelming sense of guilt. He sticks out his hand for a shake, and she takes it. “Well, Cresta, I suppose I'll see you after the Games.”

       Her movement is stiff, and he can tell she's still nervous. He can't blame her. “I suppose you will.”

       He squeezes her hand gently, before he can stop himself, then says, softly, “I promise you, Cresta. You'll be fine.” It's the best lie he's ever told.

+

       Mags opens the door before he has the chance to knock, grabs his face, and pulls it down to her height. She examines his eyes, frowns, tilts his head upwards, looks up his nose, and frowns deeper. He wonders if he should apologize— it'd probably help, he figures.

       “I'm sorry, Mags.”

       She shakes her head, and he knows: 'sorry' doesn't cut it. He sighs, and places his hands over hers, and gently removes them from his cheeks. He straightens up and she points to his stomach, and he shakes his head.

       “No. Didn't have time. I'll eat on the train.”

       She shakes her head again, still frowning, and takes his left hand with her right, dragging him into her home. She offers him some crackers, which he eats less out of hunger and more out of shame, and then she takes him by the hand again and leads him back out the door.

       He helps her down the four steps in front of her home, and she pats his cheek fondly before they continue onwards, slowly. When they reach the town square, he helps her up to the stage, and into a chair.

       He takes his own place in the chair next to hers, and leans his head back, towards the sky. His head is starting to ache again, and he tries not to think of the small sea-glass box in the bag by his feet.

       Maika arrives a few moments later, followed a by a small posse of Capitol citizens, both male and female, who wink and wave at him. Her hair is sea-foam white, her lips blue-green, and she grins at Finnick when he opens his eyes and looks at her.

       “There's our Golden Boy!”

       He smiles, and it hurts his cheeks. He then leans his head back and crosses his arms over his exposed chest once more.

+

       The reaping begins exactly like all the others— Maika titters away and Finnick thinks of all the repercussions of having the odds in his favor, and then she draws the girl's name and calls it.

            _Hilly Frenchas._

           He opens one eye and glances across the crowd to the girl that is, apparently, Hilly Frenchas. She is small and terrified looking, and he closes his eyes again. He figures she'll die, and that he can't stop it, and he can come to terms with that.

       And then her voice breaks the silence and he sits up.

       “I volunteer,” _No, don't do that_ , “I volunteer as tribute.” Her voice isn't shaking anymore.

       It should be. She should be terrified.  She should be scared as Hell.

       He watches her approach the stage, guided by a Peacekeeper, and tries to keep his untouchable face up. When Maika introduces her and the crowd remains silent, he knows that she will be returning: in a box, with the Capitol's most sincere condolences. And her blood will add to that already dripping off of Finnick's hands. And if she wins— if she wins, it will be even worse. She will become him.

+

       Mags is the one that pushes him into her room in the Town Hall. He stands outside of the closed door for a few moments before the old woman opens the door and gives him a gentle shove.

       He sees her, on the chair, a few pieces of hair escaping from her braid, her eyes red like she's been crying. He wants to say something— he's not sure what, he keeps flip-flopping between anger and something that would resemble empathy if he wasn't Finnick Odair and his hands weren't dripping with blood.

       He opens his mouth, but he can't think of what to say-- what does one say when they are about to lead a friend to her death? She's going to die. He knows it-- Hell, she probably knows it.

       She's going to die and Finnick is going to take whatever the hell he can to forget about his— not, not his— sea green sunset. His head hurts, standing in that room. His head hurts and he can't stand to look at her because she is a walking death sentence and he is a murderer.

       He leaves the room and the Peacekeeper outside tells him he still has eight minutes and Finnick nods and keeps walking and leaves Annie Cresta friendless and alone to face down her own mortality.

       He hates her for making him care. He hates the goddamn sunset.

 


	3. Corpse In Her Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not supposed to be you out there. You're not supposed to be here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the most love and thanks possible to the wonderful Alec for editing.

 

       Mags retrieves her from her room. Annie knows immediately that she likes her— the old woman holds her hand as she escorts her to the train station and rubs comforting patterns into the side of Annie's thumb with her own, and though she doesn't say anything, Annie's breathing normalizes for the first time that day. Mags only lets go of her hand when the train is in sight.

       “Thank you,” Annie whispers, and Mags gestures to the corner of her mouth and points upwards. Annie smiles as she is told. Her cheeks hurt and the skin burns where salt from her tears earlier remains.

       Mags guides her deftly through the throng of snapping camera lenses. Annie tries not to notice the large screen on the side of the train, displaying her own tear-tracked face smiling down at her. Mags hurries her into the open train car, and the door slides shut behind her.

       Annie stops smiling.

+

          The train is larger than she is expecting-- with long carpeted hallways and endless doors, most of which are locked. Annie follows the winding corridors aimlessly, eyes trained on the rich crimson rug beneath her feet, paying no real mind to where she is going. Her thoughts are elsewhere: Behind the train, which now chugs mercilessly onward, towards the Capitol, along the sandy beaches of District Three that she never really believed she'd have to leave. Her thoughts are with her father, tying endless knots in nets he hates, left alone in the world by the two women who never meant to go.

           She can imagine his hands, not shaking, because her father never shakes, twisting rope into nets for people who will forget his daughter's name when she dies in the Arena. She wonders if he'll shake then.

           Her mind is so preoccupied with what she has left behind that she fails to notice what is in front of her, crashing into something solid and warm.

           "Are you okay?" Markian-- Mark, she corrects herself-- is smiling at her in the same genuine way he has earlier, hands resting on her arms to steady her. She pulls away from him quickly, dusting at herself as if she has fallen.

           "I-- yeah. I'm sorry about that."

           "Don't worry about it," He continues to smile at her, and she tries not to notice that his eyes are a similar shade of brown to her father's. He will most likely kill her, and spotting familiar things about him will not make her death any easier on either of them, "I guess we're both a little caught up in this, huh?"

           He laughs, as if he's made some kind of wonderful joke. His laugh isn't as deep as she expects, and a small voice reminds her that he is only fourteen. He is a child. They are both children. "I guess we are, aren't we?"

          "I'm betting one of us wins." It comes out of nowhere, and she knows he doesn't mean her.

          "You think?" Annie is surprised at how tired her voice sounds. As if she has aged sixty years within their conversation.

          "I mean, He did it," Mark jabs his thumb towards a door behind him, and Annie can only assume he means Finnick, "Why can't I?"

         She nods and hurries past him without another word. Finnick was just a child.

 

+

           He stands in front of her, hands deep in the pockets of his dress pants, frowning. She tries to speak, opening her mouth but he cuts her off, “Are you completely stupid?” His voice is harsh, and cuts through her steely resolve. The tears she's been refusing to cry all day are prickling behind her eyes.

       “I did what I thought was right,” Her voice cracks a little at the end of her retort, “She was scared. She would have died, Finnick.”

       His eyes narrow at hearing his name, and his expression is darker than anything she has seen on his face before, “So you traded her life for yours? That seemed like the logical conclusion?”

       “She was scared.” She repeats herself, as if somehow the logic behind the little girl's emotions will worm their way into his skull and make sense.

       “So were you, if I remember correctly!” He's shouting, and she feels herself pull away from him, “What, you want to leave your father completely alone, do you?”

       She doesn't have an answer for that, but she can feel the first tear roll down her cheek, angry and sad and something else all at once, so she turns away.

       His silence behind her hurts more than his words. She retreats to her room, despite the short train ride to the Capitol, and lies on her bed, face buried in a pillow, and cries. Finnick O'dair hates her, and she can't exactly blame him. She has volunteered her way into what is inevitably her own death-- she has given up her entire future for some little girl she never met, and he doesn't understand why. Annie is not entirely sure she does either.

+

       Her head aches as she steps off the train, Finnick standing next to her, his face changing from a sour glower to a megawatt grin as the door to the outside world slides open.

       “Smile,” He hisses in her ear, and she does as she is instructed.

       Her first thought of the Capitol is that it is loud. Hordes of brightly colored people stand behind thick velvet ropes on either side of the small group, chanting and screaming and flashing bright cameras at them. Maika guides them expertly through the throng of people, and Annie tries hard not to notice the way hands reach for Finnick, brushing against his face and arms in ways far too intimate for just-in-passing, brightly colored nails displaying themselves against his golden brown skin. His grin doesn't falter as they move through, but the moment they step through the doors of the elevator within the tribute building, his smile falls. The angry part of Annie softens a little.

       “I hate it when they do that,” He breathes so that only she can hear him, and she reaches over and squeezes his hand before he remembers he is angry with her and stiffens to her touch. He turns away from her, and she closes her eyes as the elevator begins to move upwards.

 

+

       Mark sits across from her as they are served breakfast in the district's apartment suite.

       The suite itself is huge, with marble floors and a conjoining living room and dining room, and two hallways on either side that lead to a series of bedrooms and bathrooms. The large table at which they are served their meal— an assortment of foods from all the districts, none of which Annie is remotely hungry for— is located almost precisely in the center of the suite.

       “What does your father do?” Mark asks, as Annie drags her spoon through the orangey-red bisque in the bowl in front of her. She looks up, surprised that the boy, whom she had not yet decided if she could even think of trusting, seems genuinely interested in getting to know her. Apparently, he has failed to realize she is a ticking time bomb of mortality the way everyone else has. Surely, it is apparent. She is barely 5'2”, barely tipping the scales at one-hundred pounds soaking wet. She doubts she could fight off even the youngest tribute.

       “What?”

       “Is he a fisherman, or...?” Mark trails off, taking a bite of the seeded bread from District Ten.

       “He makes nets.” Annie tastes the soup. It's spicier than she expected, but she doesn't mind it.

       “And your mother?”

       Annie places the spoon back in her bowl, staring at the soup, “Dead. My mother's dead.”

       Mark pales, his eyes growing wide, “I-I'm so sorry.”

       “Don't be. It's not your fault.” Annie pushes her plate and bowl away from her, ignoring Mags' concerned gaze, “The Tribute Parade isn't until tomorrow, correct?” She directs the question to Maika, who sits at the head of the table, not touching her food.

       “Yes, dear, you are correct!” Maika smiles at her, “You have a full day to yourself. Well, besides this evening. We will be watching the tapes from yesterday. As a group!” She giggles at the end, as if watching children receive a death sentence is some wonderful bonding activity.

       “I'm gonna go catch up on my sleep, then.” Annie stands, not waiting to be excused, and heads to the hallway to the right, ignoring Finnick as she passes by. If he wants to be upset with her for saving a little girl's life, it's his choice. She's not sure she stands by her decision-- she's not sure she'll ever know if it's the right one, to bleed out in the Arena in her place, but she accepts it. She doesn't get why he can't. It's not his life on the line anymore.

+

       Annie concludes that Finnick Odair is the most selfish person in the world. She does so while buried in layers of down-blankets, face smushed against the softest pillows she has ever experienced, brain whirring over the actions of a boy whom she wouldn't be alive to be bothered by in a few days.

       Mortality, she reflects, is strange. Coming face-to-face with it has made her focus on anything but. Instead, she focuses on Finnick Odair's selfishness, the way she misses the sound of the ocean, the way light reflects off of green eyes and golden skin.

       She dozes off at some point, and is awakened by someone knocking on the door to the room she has claimed as her own.

       She mumbles something she hopes sounds remotely similar to either 'Come in' or 'Leave me alone', and the door swings open.

       Maika stands there, smiling widely at Annie, who sits up, feeling a strange sort of disappointment. Who does she expect it to be? Finnick hates her, and Mark has, by that point, most likely realized the frailty of his fellow tribute. Maika takes one look at her, still in her rumpled reaping clothes, with her hair sticking in one hundred different directions, and commands her to bathe and change before dinner.

       Annie raises herself out of bed after Maika shuts the door, removing her dress unceremoniously as she approaches the bathroom conjoined with her room.

       The bathroom is huge— the shower is sunken into the floor, and the mirror shows Annie in her naked entirety, from head to toe. She removes the fish clip carefully from her hair and places it on the granite counter beneath the mirror. She unbraids her hair gingerly, and steps into the shower.

       The water starts automatically. It has a kind of pleasant warmth to it immediately— not too hot, but not too cold— but Annie fiddles with the knobs on the wall beneath the faucet anyways. The one on the right sprays her with a heavy, lavender scented foam that it takes several moments to scrub from her skin. Another fills the room with lemon-scented steam, and another coats her in sticky salt water that makes her exceptionally homesick.

       She feels like vomiting. Home is someplace she'll never see again, and it hits her at that exact moment that she will never again stand on her beach and look upon her ocean. She will never again dive into her sea and see the flashes of silver fish beneath the surface, too fast to catch and too slow to go unnoticed. She will never return to the now-empty room that faces the water.    

       Her dresser will stand untouched, her bed still unmade from the day she left and never returned. She will be another tombstone for her father to lay sea-grapes across like flowers. In a few days, she realizes, she will be dead. It seems real to her for the very first time.

       She sits on the floor, wrapped in a soft towel, and tries not to cry. She does so anyways, and spends a few seconds trying to pull herself together before getting dressed.

       The clothes in the dresser in the adjoining bedroom are her size, and it only seems half strange to her. They do not itch, nor rub against her skin in any uncomfortable way, but they feel wrong. She is a dead girl walking. A corpse in clothes that fit perfectly.

+

       Annie is late to dinner, but no one seems to notice nor mind. She sits down next to Mark, across from Finnick. She avoids eye contact with either of them, and picks at the food in front of her. Mags, seated next to Finnick, smiles at her, and Annie's stomach calms a little. She eats more than she has in the last few days. The realization of mortality, it seems, does very little to sate her hunger.

       When the meal is finished, all five gather on the couch in the center of the connected living room, as Maika fiddles with the remote to the screen occupying a large portion of the wall across from the sofa. She lets out a little gasp of glee when it turns on, and claps her hands, turning to the two tributes on the divan with a clap. Annie flinches unintentionally at the noise.

The screen flips immediately to the review of the previous evening’s proceedings. The program runs in reverse order of the districts, starting with Twelve and ending with One.

The feed from Twelve is grainy and poorly lit. Annie can tell the sun is setting when the reaping takes place— the shadows of the crowd lie long across the ground as a camera pans over them.

Maika pauses the video feed as the Tributes are called up, tapping a long fingernail against the screen, “Oh, dear. Effie got stuck with the skinny ones again.”

It’s true— as horrible as it seems, coming from Maika’s mouth— the District Twelve tributes are not so much thin as emaciated. Annie tries not to take some kind of sick comfort in knowing she will not be the first to die. She watches the female tribute’s arm shake as Effie Trinket raises it above her head in victory.

“No threat there.” Finnick’s voice drips with something resembling sarcasm, and Annie tries to pretend he hasn’t spoken.

It gets harder, though, as they move up through the Districts. He keeps up a running commentary that gets progressively less about the other Tributes and more about Annie.

Scared, Cresta? You should be.

That one, there, on the right? He’s fourteen and I’m betting he could still rip out Cresta’s throat with his teeth.

She can’t tell if she wants to cry or scream or hit Finnick across the jaw. She doesn’t get it. Maybe at one point, she understood why he’s angry— but she doesn’t anymore. The Tributes from Two flash across the screen, and Maika pauses it once more, looking grave.

“Now, I don’t want anyone to be intimidated by this—”

“Oh, but they will be.” Finnick grins lazily from his spot on an over-stuffed arm chair.

Annie makes a decision.

She stands, trying to ignore the protests from her knees, and turns to him, “We get it Odair. You hate me for volunteering in the place of some kid who was scared shitless to die. But here’s an idea: You’re supposed to be a mentor. How about you pull your head out of your ass and act like one.” It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop as she turns away from him. “I’m going to bed.”

She starts towards her bedroom, half-hoping he’ll call after her, apologize something, but the common room is silent behind her.

+

The door thuds shut behind her, and she collapses once more into the pile of soft down pillows and heavy comforters, exhaling loudly. She wonders, briefly, if it would be wrong to survive the Games just to spite Finnick. She could breathe loudly in his ears wherever he went, just to point out that she’s still alive; it would be as if  he had lost some kind of cosmic bet.

She can’t help but laugh a little at that. It’s more than a little bitter-- the absurdity of a scenario where she survives strikes her as mildly entertaining, in a doomed, sort of hopeless way. She lays back against her nest of pillows, and tries to imagine ways to savor being alive. It’s hard, she supposes, to realize the enormity of a thing before one has lost it. She also supposes that it will be difficult to realize the enormity of life once she has given it up-- and so she tries to fathom what exactly it is she shall be losing.

Her father. She realizes she is losing him exactly as he is losing her, though she does not have the luxury of time the way he does. He has years to mourn her, and she has less than a week to mourn him.

Mags— though she wonders if Mags really is hers to lose in the first place. Mags has seen dozens of Tributes die in the Games, and Annie is one among a sea of many.

And Finnick. She is losing Finnick. Something within her whispers that she already has lost him, and the whisper burrows itself deep inside her chest. The knowledge aches. She isn’t even dead yet and she’s already lost him.

She curls up in the bed, and her sense of ironic happiness is gone. Mortality is among the blankets that lie across her body, and it seems to be smothering her.

 

The rapping on the door is what wakes her up. It’s not particularly loud, nor is it very quiet. She stirs, removing herself from the mess of blankets, and opens the door, trying not to shiver in her thin pajamas.

Finnick Odair is shirtless, wearing only a pair of pants made of the same material as Annie’s pajamas. He doesn’t look sheepish or apologetic, though something about his demeanor has changed drastically since she last saw him. She waits for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, she makes her own attempt.

“Hi?” Her voice is softer than she expects, and tired. She wonders what time it is, why he’s awake. He should be asleep. She should be asleep. A spiteful voice in her head reminds her that there will be plenty of time to sleep when she’s dead.

“Hi.” He stares at her, and she suddenly feels underdressed in her thin night gown.

“Is there a reason you--”

“I’m sorry.” The apology is quiet, but it breaks her off anyways. His eyes still hold some level of defiance, but the bright flash of anger within them has dwindled to a dull glow. Annie figures she can handle a dull glow.

“Finnick-”

He cuts her off, focusing his eyes somewhere on the ground beneath her feet, “It was selfish. It is selfish. I’m being selfish about a life that’s not even mine.”

“Finnick-”

“But Annie, it’s not supposed to be you out there. You aren’t supposed to be here.” earlier, the same words leaving his mouth would have hurt her, but there’s no harsh infliction behind them. Finnick Odair sounds tired, not angry.

Still, they flare something inside of her, a shadow of her rage from earlier, “I did what I did so that someone else could live, Finnick.”

He tears his eyes from the floor, so that he is looking her full in the face, and she notices that his pupils are blown to almost the size of his irises, “Don’t be upset that I haven’t resigned myself to your death quite yet.”

He’s looking at her, she realizes, not as a dead girl. The mourning look in his eyes isn’t because he believes he’s lost her, it’s because he knows he will. But he hasn’t yet.

Cautiously, her arm as heavy as lead, she reaches across the doorway and places a hand on his shoulder. He moves forward, wraps his arms around her waist, and hugs her. She wraps both arms around his neck, and breathes against his chest. She can’t help but think that this is as close to saying goodbye as the two of them will get, that this is her closure. She pushes him away first, awkwardly, and he mutters a quick ‘goodnight’ before turning away.

As he retreats down the hall, she wonders when Finnick Odair became the optimist in their relationship.


	4. Attack of the Boob Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cresta, your cleavage makes no sense."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a general rule, I'll be updating on Wednesdays, though next week may be an exception, as I have a sports thing out-of-state this weekend.   
> Special thanks to Alec for both the situation that gives this chapter its name, the chapter name itself, and her wonderful editing.  
> (I swear to God this is not a crack fic)

   The next day is a blur. She is awakened by Maika, who beams down at her in a way that makes Annie wonder if perhaps she has extra teeth to ensure an extra wide grin. She is swept to breakfast while still in her nightclothes. She would’ve felt underdressed if Mark had not been similarly clothed. He smiles at her, and she manages a smile back before food is placed before her, and she realizes how hungry she is.

   She tears apart chunks of bread and dips them in various fruit butters, eats three poached eggs, and drinks hot, sweet tea, as Maika summarizes their day. Annie doesn’t see how it takes as long as it does: She and Mark are to meet with their stylists immediately following breakfast, be decorated with fishing paraphernalia, and then be led to a carriage to be paraded before Panem like human fish caught in the Capitol’s net, which, of course, they are.

   She keeps the analogy to herself as she finishes her last piece of bread and stands, stretching. Maika claps her hands together and wraps her fingers around Annie’s thin wrist, dragging her towards an empty room down the hallway. She realizes, as Maika pushes her through the heavy wooden door into the room, that Finnick was not at breakfast.

   The thought leaves her mind as her eyes adjust to the brilliant light of the room. The floor is made of polished marble, the walls of two dozen floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Annie notices twenty-four versions of herself blinking back at her before she notices her stylist and prep team standing in the middle of the room, grinning at her.

   Annie is at a loss for words, though it seems not to bother her style team, who all immediately engulf her in what is, apparently, a group hug. As they untangle themselves from both her and each other, they introduce themselves. Their names are hard to catch, but she remembers her stylist’s.

   “Lilac,” The woman hugs Annie once more, and grins at her. “And I am so excited to have you as our tribute!”

   “Me, too.” It’s a lie, but it seems to delight Lilac, who claps excitedly before guiding Annie to an elevated piece of wood in the center of the room.

   She stands on it as the style team strips her completely naked, Lilac circling her, nodding, and occasionally whispering to her team, who eventually all disappear out a door that almost blends in among the mirrors. They return with four large metal boxes. From the boxes they remove pots of hot wax, jars of various oils, paper strips, and five pairs of tweezers.

  They begin by pouring the oil over her hair, which doesn’t bother her much, as the oil is just barely warm, and smells like a hundred different kinds of delicious herbs. It’s soothing, actually.

And then they begin the waxing. They start with her legs, and it’s all she can do not to kick the team as they coat her skin in hot wax and stick the paper strips to her before removing them violently. They ‘tsk’ apologetically as she squints at the pain. They move on to her arms, her bikini line, her stomach, her breasts. Her pale skin is red and raw by the time they put away the wax and take out the tweezers, leaning close to her to pluck away any stray hair that they may have missed.

Annie decides she prefers the waxing as Lilac herself removes a particularly stubborn hair from behind her kneecap.

They all step back and examine Annie from a distance, as if she is a piece of art, or some prized livestock, then one leads her to an adjoining shower, where she is placed under hot and then cool water, then led back out to the main room.

She is smothered in a salve to decrease the redness from the waxing, given a robe, which she dons immediately, and is instructed to sit on the floor. The wax and tweezers are brought back out, and her eyebrows are thinned and reshaped, the imaginary hairs on her upper lip and chin removed.

When Lilac seems satisfied with the results, she shoos her team from the room once more and sits across from Annie.

“Annalise.” Lilac smiles at her in a way that strikes Annie as vaguely maternal.

“Annie.”

“Annie,” She corrects herself, “I’ve been thinking. Fishnets are boring, aren’t they? A little overdone.”

Annie nods, but inside she is somewhat ecstatic. She will not be draped in a fishnet-- perhaps, just perhaps, she won’t look completely ridiculous in front of all of Panem.

“So,” Lilac continues, standing, “I was thinking: what else can we do? And then I had it,” she snaps her fingers, “You’re going to be a fish!”

She looks so proud that Annie doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the idea is absolutely terrible. Annie Cresta is not fish material for many reasons. The first and foremost being that she is, in fact, a human, and the second being that she’s not sure she’ll make a very attractive fish.

Annie nods, and Lilac laughs. “Oh, don’t look so severe, dear. You’ll be lovely.”

+

When they are finished with her hair and makeup, her team allows her to stand and admire herself in one of the mirrors on the walls.

Annie has to admit that she looks good. Her hair reminds her of a sunset-- all red and gold-- in a long, complicated braid reminiscent of a fish tail that hangs down her bare back. Her skin looks more golden than usual, as if she has spent weeks in the sun. Beginning from her ankles, twisting around her legs and up her back and arms, Lilac has painstakingly attached tiny blue and green gems that flash silver in the light. Her lips are covered in a thick layer of glitter the same shade as the gems, her eyes outlined in a deep blue that makes her a little bit homesick.

And then she sees the dress, which Lilac reveals with a dramatic flourish from beneath a sheet of heavy purple plastic.

Annie would rather wear the plastic. The dress itself isn’t really a ‘dress’ persay-- it is a three-dimensional foam fish with a hole cut through the center. The fish’s mouth is wide open, forming a near-perfect ‘O’. Bits of filmy fabric hang from the fish’s stomach, presumably to cover her legs.

Lilac slides the fish over Annie’s head, adjusting straps over her shoulders that Annie cannot see,and directs her to put on a pair of underwear that matches the color of the fish’s scales. She then guides her once more to a mirror and grins at the reflection.

The first thing Annie notices is the the way the bottoms of her breasts are almost entirely visible through the fishes mouth. She wonders if it’s some kind of mistake. Surely, they can’t expect her to appear in front of all of Panem looking the way she does.

But they do. One of Lilac’s assistants slides a pair of sea-green heels on to Annie’s feet, and the rest of the team gathers around, ooh-ing and ahh-ing as if there is not a gaping mouth threatening to expose Annie’s chest to the general public with every tiny movement.

Someone must hear her thoughts, as Lilac glides forward with a roll of tape and tells her to hold still.

                                 +

He tries his hardest not to breathe. It's easy, really-- his face is buried in the soft down pillow, every exhale sticking to the fabric, every inhale forcing him to suffocate on the cotton pillowcase. He wonders, if he just breathes deeply enough, if the fabric will go down his throat and constrict him from the inside out. He wonders if it’s possible to choke to death on purpose. That would be a new one-- maybe more straightforward than drowning had been, though the irony of sinking in the ocean still strikes him as beautiful and tragic in the way the Capitol so adores about Finnick Odair.

His client-- such a clinical word, for what he’s doing-- thrusts forward and Finnick moans in a way that he hopes doesn’t sound as pitiful to the man as it does to his own ears. He leans his head back in the way Snow himself taught him, with his hands wrapped in Finnick’s hair, pulling his neck towards him in a way that still gnaws Finnick’s insides.

“You don’t struggle,” He had whispered as Finnick, still somewhat knobby-kneed at fifteen, had done precisely that, “You let them believe you are enjoying it-- even when you are not.”

Finnick has gotten better at pretending. He is a machine, his innocence lost too early, replaced with the skin of every Capitol citizen beneath his bloody fingertips, and lines that make the whole world sparkle.

The man behind him is not Snow-- he reminds himself over and over, every time the man thrusts forward, touches him with his cold hands, wraps his fingers in his golden hair, pulls his face away from the pillow.

He is not Snow, Finnick thinks over and over again, as he whispers secrets in his ears that drift among memories of ornamental rugs and boyhood taken by men with eyes like blood.

Finnick leaves once he has the secrets. He buttons his pants as he walks out the door, swinging it shut with more force than he intends, and begins back towards the Tribute apartments, hoping to there discover a glimmering world without the pounding of his head.

+

Annie wants to be wearing a fishnet. She teeters towards the living room, accompanied by Maika, who jabbers on about just how lovely Annie looks. Annie wants to point out that ‘lovely’ is not exactly the correct word for the way she looks, but she stays quiet, focusing her attention on not tripping over her massive heels.

When they finally reach the common area, Annie feels as if she has run a marathon. She wants to rip the heels of her feet and lie down. Her head throbs a little as she squints past the glimmer of jewels and sparkles on her cheeks.

Finnick is lounging on a couch, one leg dangling over the seat so that his foot touches the floor, the other folded to allow Mags to seat herself precariously on the cushions, her hands folded on her lap.

Mark enters from the other side of the room, guided by a man Annie has never seen before, dressed in all white, who disappears almost as quickly as he arrives. Markian is clad in a way that makes Annie slightly less embarrassed for herself. He is shirtless, his abdominal muscles clearly defined, or even created, through some kind of makeup, dressed in a pair of rubber pants and heavy work boots held up by a thick suspenders. In his hand he awkwardly clutches a net, woven with pale gems that sparkle in the light.

It looks so wrong on him, she has the bizarre desire to laugh.

Finnick beats her to the punch. She is not entirely sure which one of the two he is laughing at, and he quickly smothers his guffaws when Mags gives him a sharp look.

The damage, however, is done. Mark flushes a deep shade of red, and Annie feels heat rush to the tips of her ears. Finnick clears his throat awkwardly, “You, uh,” He pauses, examining Annie in a way that makes her more than slightly uncomfortable, “look great.”

It’s hard to tell if he’s lying. There is a teasing tone in his voice-- one Annie hasn’t heard in a long time, but she is exposed, and he is, she supposes, a man, and so--

“And you,” He turns to Mark, “look--” he snickers, “I’m sorry. You both look ridiculous. Cresta, your cleavage makes no sense.” Her ears burn hotter. “And Markian, those,” Finnick gestures at the boy’s stomach in a way that seems bored, “make me a little sad.”

Maika makes a tsking noise, which Finnick ignores, then ushers the Tributes out the door.

+

She thinks it’s odd that, in a room full of people that want to-- and undoubtedly will-- kill her, the thing she’s most terrified of is the carriage in front of her. Markian gets in first, then helps her up. It’s weird, really. She can’t help but think there may be some kind of friendship between them. Not the rocky sort she and Finnick experience, but a kind nonetheless.

From the carriage, she can see across the sea of Tributes, each one clad in clothes representing their Districts. Some are wearing practically nothing-- the blonde girl from One is completely naked, a layer of multi-colored precious stones concealing the details of her body-- while some seem to disappear within their clothing. The Tributes from Twelve are dressed as miners, and their over-large clothes appear to swallow them up, and a girl from ten appears to be wrestling with over-long branches appearing from the swirls of her long, wispy skirt. They seem a lot less intimidating this way, each pulled into the role imagined for them by the Capitol hordes..

She teeters unsteadily in her heels as the carriage lurches into movement, and Mark links his arm with hers in what appears to be a perfectly natural act, steadying her. They follow the first three carriages into the bright light of the Capitol parade track. Annie can feel thousands of  pairs of eyes trained on her, and she becomes overly conscious of her nearly-exposed chest. Next to her, Mark begins to wave.

He leans down, at one point, and she realizes just how tall he is for a fourteen-year-old, and how incredibly short she must seem next to him.

“Smile.” It feels less threatening than when Finnick first said it, like it’s genuine advice and not a life-or-death action.

She smiles, and, after a few seconds, gets up the courage to wave. It’s awkward at first. Her wrist seems to forget what to do-- does it wag or flap or just rotate? She settles on rotation, and the movement becomes more natural. Her smile no longer feels as forced as before, and she even blows a kiss to some brightly-colored Capitol-ite, who screams.

The carriage makes a round-about and stops in front of a large screen, mounted against a solid sheet of concrete. Before it, leaning against a podium, stands President Snow himself. He smiles at each of the tributes individually, and, when his eyes land on Annie, she feels her spine stiffen.

The speech he delivers is brief-- Annie can’t bring herself to focus on what he is saying, though she knows it ends with ‘may the odds be ever in your favor’. The sentence lowers the corners of her mouth, and her smile is gone for the briefest of moments. Then the carriage begins to move again, and the grin returns, her jaw and cheeks aching from fake joy.


	5. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was once titled 'Chapter Five or Something idgaf'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most love to Alec for doin' her thang. This chapter was such a struggle. 
> 
>  
> 
> (also: anyone know how to make tabs work in copy/pasting works??? plz send help)

Finnick is quiet when they return-- something in his eyes scares Annie as she sits down across from him, showered, the gems removed from her skin. She doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at her. Maika does all the talking for all of them, anyways.

She begins with showing them the video feed of the parade. Annie’s not entirely sure how to react to seeing herself. She waves on screen, grinning at the camera, and it seems almost genuine.  Mark stands next to her, beaming, but she can’t tear her eyes off her own face. The girl on screen isn’t Annie Cresta, the scared girl who volunteered--she’s some Capitol sweetheart, grinning and waving and glittering with gems.

“You look so lovely, dear.” Maika speaks up first, startling Annie's attention away from the girl on screen.

"Thank you?" It comes out as an unintended question, but Maika nods along anyways.

Finnick shifts his weight next to her, and she can hear him exhale loudly. She half expects him to say something, but he remains quiet. Mark grins widely at her from across the room.

"I was surprised you survived those shoes! Thought you were going to fall and pull both of us off that carriage."

It's not that funny, but Annie laughs anyways. Her laugh is hoarser than she's used to. "Yeah," she agrees, "So did I."

+

The training uniform is tight-- the fabric clings to her shoulders and thighs, pulling taut as she stretches her arms behind her in a vain attempt to loosen her shoulder muscles . Mark, next to her, seems equally uncomfortable in his outfit made of the same dark material, though he had opted for short sleeves instead of long, like hers.

She stands in the elevator with him and Mags, (Finnick had noticeably been missing at breakfast again) and tries to breathe steadily.

"These are a little tight, huh?" Mark's comment relieves some of the tension in the elevator, and Annie manages a smile.

"I suppose you could say that."

The elevator halts its progression downwards and the doors _ding_ as they slide open. Mags steps out before them, teetering a little. She shakes her head when Mark makes a move to help steady her, and leads them, slowly, down a long, metal hallway.

The hallway ends with set of large double-doors, through which Annie can hear the low hum of voices. She feels as if her lungs are contracting into her ribcage. Mark pushes open the doors, holding them for Mags, and Annie feels herself move forward mechanically. Her blood rushes in her ears.

She and Mark halt upon entering the room. It’s large, with a solid, concrete floor, several sparring mats, and various training stations. It reminds Annie of a larger, more complicated version of the training area back in District Four, with infinitely more people who want to kill her. She shifts a bit closer to Mags, who squeezes her hand, before giving her a little push forward.

+

Mark splits off from her pretty fast. She realizes quickly that he has been significantly more interested in training than she has. He spars with a Capitol trainer while she wanders from station to station, eventually settling on knots. It’s not hard-- her father taught her how to make nets at a young age, and she breezes through all the listed ties. The instructor is teaching her a complicated snare when the girl from District One drifts over, looking bored.

“You’re from Four, right?” Annie glances over at the girl. She is tall, blonde, and slender, though Annie can’t help but notice the bulge of her biceps beneath her sleeves. Annie nods, and returns to the snare.

“I’m Garnet.” The girl--Garnet-- extends her hand into Annie’s field of view, and she is forced once more to tear her attention away from the knot to shake it.

“Annie.”

Garnet laughs, “Yeah, I know. Your fish boobs really made quite the impression on us.”

Annie wants to ask who exactly ‘us’ is, but she settles for a curt nod.

“You’re quiet, aren’t you.” It’s not a question, and Annie decides not to respond to it, “Anyways, why are you wasting your time on knots? It’s not like anyone actually uses them in the Games. How about we try something real?”

It’s how Annie is pulled into the Career circle. It’s not like she necessarily expects any different, and it seems to make Mark happy, so she goes along with it. Garnet drags her along, as if Annie is her personal pet, and Annie, for a reason she can’t exactly pinpoint, feigns interest in whatever the other girl says. They spend the morning of the first day at the archery station. Annie hits her target only twice, and Garnet makes almost every shot perfectly.

She mocks Annie for it at lunch. They are joined by the boy from One, who introduces himself as Platinum and says not much else, Mark, as well as the girl and boy from Two.

“Fish Boobs over here couldn’t make a single damn shot!” Garnet chuckles, tearing off a hunk of the brilliant white Capitol bread and shoving it into her mouth, “And to think I thought you might be a threat!”

The comment stings. Annie can feel Mark staring at her from across the group, and she focuses on the fork in her hands, deciding not to respond.

+

The girl from Two follows Annie through the stations after lunch. She introduces herself as Lana and stays virtually silent after that, though she seems less hostile than Garnet does. Annie doesn’t really mind her hovering. Lana can’t be older than fourteen-- though she is at least two inches taller than Annie-- and has large, hazel eyes, framed by thick lashes. She watches everything Annie does with interest.

Lana and she eventually find themselves at a table covered in various knives. Annie feels something in her stomach flop-- throwing knives had been the only combat training she had ever been proficient in. She spends several minutes examining the knives under the watchful eyes of an instructor, until she picks one up. It is one of the smaller blades-- slender, with a wooden handle that feels almost warm in her hands.

The instructor initiates a basic training routine on a target generator, and a human form appears. It begins running, and Annie takes a deep breath.

The knife sails through the air and pierces the target in the square of its back. The target itself disintegrates, and Annie breathes out.

She selects more knives-- six, as told to do by the man running the station-- as a new training program is initiated. She focuses herself once more as the generator hums, then throws each knife as targets sprint by her.

She doesn’t miss. Not once.

Her blood is buzzing in her ears, and through the noise, she can hear, faintly, somewhere far behind her, “Damn, Fish Boobs. Maybe we should be threatened.”

+

The rest of the week is much of the same-- though the knife Instructor insists on more individualized training, in which he has Annie aim for increasingly smaller targets and retrieve her own knives. Finnick doesn’t talk to her much, though he smiles at her over breakfast one day, and she almost expects him to say something.

He breaks the silence after the last day training.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the counter in the corner of the dining area, looking at Annie and Mark, who are seated on the dining table. “We have many things to discuss.” There’s a kind of goofiness in his voice that reminds Annie of home-- of standing on the beach with him while he drew lines in the sand and tried to get hermit crabs to race each other.

“First of all, alliances. Mark--” the boy straightens up. “You mentioned something about One and Two?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty game for an alliance. At least for the beginning. They’re big fans of Annie’s knife skills.” Annie can feel her face redden, which strikes her as strange. It’s never been something important enough to be embarrassed about.

“Says Mark. You should see him at hand-to-hand.”

Mark beams at her, and Annie notices the freckles on his cheeks. He seems so young.

“Yes, well, I’ll have to bring it up with their mentors. Make sure it’s all set in stone.” Finnick examines his fingernails before continuing. “And then there’s the Tribute Demonstrations tomorrow. Cresta, I assume you’ll be throwing knives. And Markian, you need to choose between weights and hand-to-hand. Unless you come up with some way to combine them, which would be neat.” The last part is dry-- it would have been humorless, had Annie not known Finnick’s sense of humor. “Get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

Mark slides off the table and heads in the direction of his room. Annie places her feet on the ground and moves hesitantly out of the room, checking behind her, just to be sure that Finnick won’t call her back.

He doesn’t move away from the counter, almost perfectly still as he stares at his cuticles. The stillness bothers her.

+

“District Four female.” the voice on the intercom is sharp, and clear. Annie cannot discern whether it is male or female-- too high for one, too low for the other. She stands from her foldable chair, giving Markian a squeeze on the shoulder, and goes through the heavy set of doors that lead to the training room.

Above her, behind a field of electricity, sit the Gamemakers. Each one looks attentive-- she wonders if they are able to maintain the level of focus they display in that moment, or if she holds some kind of allure to them. She tries not to think of their eyes following her as she approaches the knives. She selects eight, each the same weight, and begins a program on the target generator.

Eight targets, eight knives. She tries not to think of how eight targets equals eight lives in the Arena.

Her fingers close around the hilt of the first knife. She breathes in, throws, and breathes out. Seven more throws.

Each target disintegrates before her eyes-- each with a knife sticking into their back. She dials down the target size and tries again.

She hits every last target. She’s never done this well before, not even back home. But here, she cannot fail. The eyes watching her are not mocking-- they are astounded.

She can feel her chest rising and falling, sweat around her temples and sticking to her shoulder blades, but she can’t hear her breathing. Instead, she hears applause. The Gamemakers are clapping. They all stand, their hands ringing together ominously.

Annie feels very small and far too big all at once-- she exits quickly, as Mark is called in, and ignores him as he calls after her, asking how it went.

The applause rings in her ears, her fingers still curled together as if they still cling to the hilt of a knife.

+

 

Her arms and shoulders ache as she pulls off her shirt. She wrestles with the sleeves to get them off the tops of her arms, where sweat has dried the stretchy fabric to her skin. She steps into the shower carefully, trying to ignore the way her legs protest, and turns the water on.

She doesn't fuss with the knobs this time-- she lets them be, preferring the constant thrum of the plain, warm water against her skin. She unwinds her hair from behind her head so that it hangs against her back, plastering itself against her skin. Annie scrubs at her face with a bar of pale purple soap before rubbing it between her palms and scrubbing at her scalp furiously.

Annie remains in the shower for a few moments after turning it off, pondering the way the knife had stuck in the target's back The target itself doesn’t scare her; it was barely a silhouette of a human. The way the Gamemakers clapped, however, does. It terrifies her-- she has won their confidence by demonstrating her ability to kill.

+

She is the last to arrive in the common room. Mark asks her how her demonstration went, and she shrugs, attempting the keep her expression flat. He nods and tells her that his went alright, and she smiles, attempting not to notice the rocking feeling in her stomach as she sits down on the couch.

Finnick sits next to her as Maika flips on the television. Annie tries not to notice his weight next to her, keeping her eyes glued to the screen instead.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar Flickerman begins, grinning widely, a glittering microphone just inches from his painted mouth. “I know you have been anxious to know the results of today's Tribute demonstrations-- I certainly have been! And so, without further ado, let's get right down to the scores!”

Annie holds her breath. She doesn't take her eyes off the screen as the faces of the District One Tributes flash across it. An eight and a nine. She's hardly surprised-- she remembers the girl's arms arcing over her head as she brought the axe down on the mannequin in training, and the way the boy threw weights over his head as if they were nothing. The unsteady feeling in her stomach increases, and she swallows.

The other Tributes begin to blur together, until she is staring at Mark's face. The photo is from when his name was drawn-- he's grinning, mid-wave, and she can't help but notice just the slightest bit of baby fat still clinging to his cheek-bones.

Eight. The number flashes on-screen, and Finnick reaches over to clap Mark on the back, who laughs.

“Honestly, I didn't think I did that well.”

Maika giggles and claps her hands together while Mags, half asleep in an armchair, rouses herself enough to smile at Markian, who nods in return.

They go quiet as Annie's face emerges on the screen. The photo is also from the Reaping, though Annie is not smiling. Instead, her hand is thrust in the air, her face set in a determined look that Annie can swear she has never seen herself make. She can't breathe.

The number 10 flashes across, Maika screams, and Annie sprints out of the room.

+

She leans over the toilet in her bathroom and vomits. She leaves the door behind her in her rush to get to the toilet.

She is dry-heaving by the time he enters. Her hands are pressed against the cold marble floor, her knuckles white from pressure. Finnick doesn't say anything, kneeling next to her, holding her hair back as she retches.

She leans back and he watches her carefully, like any kind of sudden movement may frighten her.

“I'm okay.” It's shaky and it's a lie and he sees right through it.

“Bullshit you're okay,” His eyes search hers, and there's something in them she hasn't seen before. “What did you even _do_ in there, Cresta?”

She breathes through her nose as he stands and fills up a glass on the counter with water, which she swishes around her mouth before responding.

“I threw knives.”

“And?” He sits down across from her, cross legged, his hands folded in his lap.

“And I guess I did okay.”

He snorts, and looks apologetic when her frown deepens. “Sorry. Inconsiderate.”

“They applauded,” she whispers it. “They applauded the fact that I can kill.”

Finnick looks at his hands, “It's Capitol morals, Annie. They value different things.”

“I don't want them to value that.” She stares at the floor, and he reaches across and grabs one of her hands from the floor.

“Tell you what, Annie. When you make it back,” she raises her head at that, “we'll change that.”

“When I come back?”

“When you come back.” He nods, and it feels final. “That's a promise I intend to keep, Cresta.”

She squeezes his hand, and he stands, helping her up. He guides her back to her bed, and she sits down on the mattress.

“Get some sleep, Cresta. Big day tomorrow.” The way he looks at her, she knows he's only half kidding.

“Yeah... Finnick?” He pauses in the doorway, “Any chance you can just... stay? Until I fall asleep?”

Something in his eyes flashes, but he nods, and turns back to her, closing the door to her room behind him. She lies down as he props himself up with some of the pillows on her bed. As she closes her eyes, she feels him wrap an arm around her shoulders. Annie snuggles a little closer to his body heat and tries not to think about 10s and arms and axes and knives buried in humanesque targets.

+

He falls asleep there, on accident. He doesn't mean to-- but she has fallen asleep in his arms and he can't bring himself to wake her up, and it's the most comfortable he's been in forever. It's been forever since he's actually _slept_ with someone. Just lay down and closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

He wakes up confused. It's dark in her room, and he can hear her breathing and feel her heartbeat against his forearm. It's steady and alive and he knows she's _real_. That he hasn't found himself in some bizarre dream, but that Annie Cresta is right there next to him.

His arm is numb, and he slides it out from under her head carefully, trying not to pull at the strands of red hair that cling to his skin.

She mumbles a little bit, turning over, but doesn't wake up, and he lets a stream of air out of his nose. He stands slowly, and tip-toes out of the room, hoping beyond hope that no one else is awake. Maika could ruin the reputation Snow has so carefully established for him, and Mags-- Mags has her theories, and Finnick no longer knows whether they are correct or not.

 


End file.
